


Love Will Find a Way

by AngelOfTheMoor



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Politics, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Politics, ambassadors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-27
Updated: 2018-02-27
Packaged: 2019-03-24 14:17:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13812930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngelOfTheMoor/pseuds/AngelOfTheMoor
Summary: At the United Nations, Castiel Novak and Dean Winchester serve as ambassadors for nations that despise each other. Castiel and Dean hate each other as well, until a chance occurrence changes everything.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: _Supernatural_ doesn't belong to me.
> 
> This fic is a response to a prompt by [longkissgoodnightbatmanandtwoafc](https://longkissgoodnightbatmanandtwofac.tumblr.com/): "Dean and Cas are ambassadors. They represent their countries in a UN like organization. Right now their countries are at odds. As a result they often fall into bitter arguments during meetings. But they grow quite fond of each other and even fall in love. However they’re forced to keep their relationship a secret." This isn't quite what you asked for, but I hope you like it anyway.
> 
> I have no idea how the UN actually works, so don't expect any accuracy on that front. Also, any resemblance to reality or current events is purely coincidental. Unbeta-ed, so I hope the fic makes sense. 
> 
> Warnings: our protagonists advocating questionable policies (after all, this is politics), minor character death. Spoiler warnings can be found at the end of the fic. If there's something I forgot, please let me know.

“The ambassador from Sylvania has the floor,” the President of the UN’s General Assembly calls from his seat at the front of the room.

Castiel clears his throat. Sylvania’s ally Daemontia is embroiled in a civil war, and it’s rife with homelessness and disease, not to mention the horrendous war injuries sustained by a good chunk of the populace. “I’ve shown you images of the suffering in Daemontia. Its citizens are in dire need of humanitarian aid. Food, medical supplies, evacuation to refugee camps—”

“I’ve detailed all the human rights abuses perpetuated by Daemontia’s current regime,” a man booms from across the chamber. Dean Winchester, ambassador from Sapia, Sylvania’s historical rival. “We must refuse to be complicit in their actions. The only way to do that is to continue the UN’s sanctions on the nation, not to send them resources. Let Daemontians know they will receive relief only when the government surrenders to the rebels.”

“The UN does not favor either side in the war,” the president rebukes.

“Right, sorry,” Winchester continues. “Forgive me. We may send aid if the government surrenders to the rebels—or if the government redresses its wrongs. Changes its ways, as it were.”

“People are suffering!” Castiel thunders. “The average citizen—he or she has nothing to do with the corruption of the government.”

“But Sylvania does,” Winchester snips.

“And Sapia is blameless?”

“Damn right.” Winchester blushes when the majority of the room glares at him. “Pardon my language.” Winchester is renowned for his casual comportment and occasional unorthodoxy. Castiel knows most countries favor maintaining the sanctions, but if he can keep baiting Winchester into losing his temper, some may hesitate to associate themselves with him.

“Don’t think I don’t know of Sapia’s role in the affair. You provide assistance to the rebels, and you’re responsible for quite a few civilian casualties.”

“Yeah, and Sylvania gives weapons to Daemontia’s military!”

“At least we own up to it.”

“You do it even though you know about the terrible sh—stuff that the government gets up to!”

Winchester does have a point. Castiel himself does not approve of Daemontia’s government. Its prime minister in particular, Lucas Oldham, has committed so many monstrous acts that many around the world have nicknamed him “Lucifer.” But Sylvania and Daemontia have been aligned by treaty for decades. If Sylvania refuses to support Daemontia’s official government, it risks censure by the UN. Castiel’s not sure if the UN would actually follow through, but it would still be a possibility. Either way, the decision isn’t Castiel’s to make. His role is to obey President Michael Archer’s dictates.

The President of the General Assembly glances at his watch. “Let’s adjourn for a recess,” he announces. “When we return, we shall take a vote on the matter.”

As Castiel retreats to an isolated corner, his phone buzzes. He glances at the caller ID. It’s Balthazar, his office manager in Eden, Sylvania’s capital. He sighs as he presses the answer button. “What is it, Balthazar? We’re in the middle of a session here.”

“Hello to you, too, Cassie,” Balthazar banters. A moment later, his voice sobers. “Listen, I have something to tell you. I wanted you to hear it from me first rather than the TV or social media . . . ”

Castiel’s stomach sinks. He wants to vomit. He has no idea what Balthazar wishes to relay to him, but it can’t be good. Maybe if he hangs up, he can pretend like whatever it is never happened. He doesn’t want to know. Based on Balthazar’s tone, the upcoming revelation will ruin him.

“I really don’t know how to say this, Cassie. It’s, uh . . . ” Balthazar’s voice thickens, and Castiel imagines him tearing up.

“Just say it, Balthazar,” Castiel asserts. Better to rip the Band-aid off quickly, as they say in the United States.

“It’s Anna and Ruby,” Balthazar rasps. Castiel’s sister and her wife are currently stationed in Daemontia, helping to provide humanitarian relief to some of the most war-torn regions. “They were in an area hit by a Sapian airstrike . . . ”

No. _No_. Balthazar’s not going to say what Castiel thinks he is.

“Neither of them made it,” Balthazar sniffs.

Static roars in Castiel’s ears. This is a nightmare. Yes, that’s it. “Are you sure?” Castiel asks. He can barely hear his own voice.

“I’m sorry,” Balthazar commiserates.

This shouldn’t have happened. Ruby and Anna had been surrounded by no one but civilians. It’s a damn war crime.

Castiel swipes under his eyes. Biting down on his lip, he barely restrains the urge to howl with rage and grief.

“Cassie?” Balthazar ventures.

“Thank you, Balthazar,” Castiel manages to grit out before hanging up. He dashes toward the restroom and locks himself in the stall before he allows himself to surrender to the sobs.

He doesn’t want to go back once the session resumes. But he has to. Sapia needs to pay for its actions. If he can turn the other countries against it—

“Hey, you okay in there?” someone calls.

Shit. He hadn’t heard anyone come in. He can’t let whoever it is see him like this. His demeanor must remain objective; otherwise, the other ambassadors will not heed his arguments for condemning Sapia. They’ll claim he’s too overwrought by emotion.

“I’m fine,” Castiel replies, smearing a hand over his eyes and clearing his throat. “I just do not feel well.”

An awkward silence ensues. Castiel doesn’t hear any footsteps. When will the man leave?

“So, you gonna come out or what? ’Cause that’s the only stall, and I kinda need . . . ” His voice tapers off, his embarrassed tone lingering in the air.

“Oh. I apologize,” Castiel responds. He throws open the door to find himself face-to-face with none other than—

“Ambassador Winchester,” Castiel declares frostily.

“Ambassador Novak,” Winchester returns, his tone just as chilly.

Castiel strides past him and examines himself in the mirror. His eyes are bloodshot. He must compose himself before the session reconvenes—

In the mirror, he notices Winchester lingering behind him, staring at his back. “Didn’t you have an urgent need to defecate?” Castiel hurls.

“Listen—you sure you all right? You sounded kinda—and you look—”

Castiel whips around. Donning a malicious smile, he scrutinizes Winchester. “What do you think?” Winchester shrugs.

Winchester bears some blame here. He represents Sapia’s agenda and—

Castiel lurches forward, snatches at Winchester’s lapels, and shoves him against the wall.

“What the hell—?” Winchester mutters.

“I am not all right,” Castiel snaps. “And do you know why?” Winchester gapes at him with this stupid clueless, innocent look, and that just won’t do. “Fucking Sapia killed my sister.”

“What?”

“My sister and her wife are _dead_. Because of you.”

“I didn’t—”

Castiel slams him again. “You did. You are Sapia, Mr. Winchester. Sapian scum. You are an appendage of their government, and your people fucking bombed—”

“There must’ve been a terrorist cell nearby.”

“They were doing humanitarian work. Acting as medics, providing food and shelter . . . you know very well that Sapia has been destroying civilian sites.”

Guilt flashes across Winchester’s face for a second, but then his expression hardens. “Listen, I’m sorry about your sister. But we acted in good faith. We must’ve had faulty intelligence.—”

Castiel snorts. “That’s a lot of faulty intelligence . . . Do you know how many civilians you’ve killed?”

“Not on purpose.”

“Doesn’t excuse it.” Castiel narrows his eyes at him. “Has it ever occurred to you that perhaps you have a double agent or . . . ” Wait, why is he providing Winchester with a _tip_? Well, if it saves other innocent people like Anna . . . it’s worth it.

“What gives you the right to act so high and mighty, huh?” Winchester spouts. “Not like Sylvania isn’t helping Daemontia’s regime to kill innocent people.”

“I admit that it is not ideal . . . ” If Castiel had his way, Sylvania would cease to support Lucifer. But he’s not in charge, and they are the more likely victors . . . the sooner someone wins, the fewer casualties there will be.

Castiel releases Winchester, who sags against the wall. His eyes—he does have such expressive green eyes—meet Castiel’s, wide and sympathetic. “I really am sorry, Mr. Novak. I can’t imagine . . . if I lost Sammy—”

“Save it,” Castiel spits before stalking out of the bathroom.

xxxxxxxxxx

Castiel passionately argues his case when the General Assembly session resumes, but Sapia wins almost all the votes. Sanctions will continue, and Daemontia will not receive any humanitarian aid from the UN until Lucifer reforms his ways. Sylvania’s victory had always been a longshot, but it still stings, especially after Anna. She’s been his best friend since he was born. After the vote, many of the ambassadors convey their condolences to Castiel, but they ring so hollow.

In the parking garage, as Castiel meanders toward his car, his phone rings. It’s Michael. Good. Castiel needs to inform him he’s taking a week’s leave from the UN to arrange for and attend Anna’s memorial.

“Hello, Michael,” Castiel answers.

“President Archer,” Michael corrects him.

Castiel inwardly sighs. “President Archer.” It doesn’t matter to Michael that they’ve known each other since college; once he became president, he started insisting Castiel address him as “President Archer.”

“I heard about Anna and Ruby. You have my sincerest sympathies.”

“Thank you.” He pauses before continuing. “President Archer. I’m going home for Anna’s memorial. And Ruby’s. I will be absent from the UN for one week—”

“No, Castiel.”

“What?” Castiel gasps.

“I need you there, Castiel. You know very well that some important votes are coming up.”

Castiel pleads, “But she’s my sister, Michael—”

“President—”

“If you refuse me this, you are no president of mine.—”

“Be careful, Castiel. You are dangerously close to treason.”

“I don’t care—”

“Enough!” Michael roars so loudly that Castiel’s jerks the phone back from his ear. “If I were you, I would rethink whatever it is you’re about to say.”

Castiel blinks. Michael can sometimes seem like a tyrant, but he’s not Lucifer. He shouldn’t take his grief out on him. “I apologize, Mr. President,” Castiel says, hoping he sounds contrite enough.

“It’s all right, Castiel,” Michael replies. “I would give anything to allow you to come home, believe me. But having you there is essential for me.”

“I know,” Castiel breathes.

Michael promises to arrange for Castiel to have Skype access to the memorial, but it won’t be the same. Once Castiel hangs up, a familiar voice behind him comments, “Dude was loud.”

Castiel turns to face Ambassador Winchester. So he’d heard Michael shout. Why does it make Castiel nervous? “What do you want?” Castiel barks.

Winchester throws his hands up in a placating gesture. “Sorry, man. Didn’t mean to interfere. I just wanted to say again how sorry I was about your sister.”

Castiel nods. Once he realizes Castiel won’t respond, Winchester wanders off.

Inside the car, Castiel’s mind whirls in confusion. Why doesn’t he believe Michael actually cares about Anna’s death? He’s not a monster, and Anna had counted him as a friend.

So why does he believe Winchester’s condolences are sincerer than Michael’s?

He must not be thinking clearly right now.

xxxxxxxxxx

Two days later, and Castiel finally finds the will to sit up in bed. He doesn’t care about Michael’s orders. He’s going to fly home for Anna’s and Ruby’s memorials. They deserve that much from him. He rubs his eyes, bleary from receiving scarce sleep, and runs a hand over the stubble on his chin. After a shave, he’ll pack his bags.

The phone on his nightstand disrupts the quiet. He glances at it. Michael. Best not to antagonize the president if he plans to defy him later.

“Hello, Mr. President,” Castiel mumbles.

“Castiel,” Michael answers curtly. “I hear you missed yesterday’s UN session.”

“Oh. Yes. I couldn’t get out of bed—”

“I understand you’re distraught about Anna, but our nation’s well-being is at stake here. You’re our principle advocate in the argument about letting Daemontia send its ambassador back to the UN—”

“The discussion will last quite some time, Mr. President.—””

“Furthermore, Castiel. I didn’t want to mention this earlier, at such a sensitive time, but you must know that the vote on humanitarian aid was very disappointing. You failed to—”

“It was unlikely to pass anyway.”

“If you do not appear at today’s session, you can expect repercussions.” With that, Michael hangs up.

Castiel sighs. Though the “repercussions” were not specified, Castiel knows they could be severe. Michael has been known to jail officeholders with whom he’s become displeased. During the election for Michael’s first term, Castiel couldn’t have foreseen he could grow into someone so autocratic. But with Michael’s firm grasp over the country, there’s little chance of change. So Castiel must work within the machine. He can twist Michael’s words around . . . he’d merely stipulated that Castiel must “appear.” And appear he will; then he’ll be on the next flight to Eden.

Castiel forces himself out of bed and makes himself presentable. He drives to the UN’s building on autopilot. After finding a spot in the parking garage, he ambles toward the stairwell.

Before he can comprehend what is happening, someone points a gun at his face.

“Castiel Novak,” the man shouts, his brown hair wild, expression crazed. “Sylvanian filth.”

“Pardon?” Castiel remarks. He knows he should feel afraid, but he doesn’t. Just bewildered.

“Your pal Lucifer is nothing but a terrorist. He murdered my daughter. She was just a journalist—she wasn’t hurting anyone.”

Castiel’s heart aches. Journalists have been known to get caught in the crossfire between the rebels and Daemontia’s government. Innocent people who didn’t deserve what’d happened to them. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs.

The man presses the gun to Castiel’s temple. “Save your fake apology. I’ll see you in hell.”

Castiel grins. Yes, he can join Anna now. Without his dearest friend, life will be excruciating. He hates his job, what he represents, and he doesn’t know how to change the situation. “Do it.”

A small blast punctuates the air. Castiel is shoved down by a mysterious force, and he feels something pierce the right side of his abdomen. His world flashes to black.

xxxxxxxxxx

When Castiel’s eyes flutter open, they’re overwhelmed by a blinding white. As his eyes adjust, he realizes he’s in a hospital room, his body clad in a nondescript white gown, a white blanket pulled up to his chin. Beeps sound at regular intervals; he’s attached to a variety of medical apparatuses. His side aches, and he groans with the pain as he attempts to sit up.

“Hey, hey,” a man to the left of him coos. “Stay still.”

He rolls his head toward the voice and finds Ambassador Winchester perched in a stiff blue chair. Several vases filled with flowers crowd the end table between him and Castiel.

“Winchester,” Castiel slurs. “What’re you doing here?”

“Waiting for you to wake up.”

“Why?”

“Wanted to make sure you were gonna be all right.”

That makes no sense. “Why?”

Rather than answering, Winchester gestures at the bevy of flowers. “Our colleagues extend their sympathy. They left these.”

“And they left you to keep an eye on me?”

Winchester averts his eyes. “I was worried.”

“Why would you care?”

“Why wouldn’t I? I’m not some heartless bastard.”

“I don’t know why the other ambassadors wanted you to stay with me.”

“They didn’t.”

“What?”

“I stayed because I wanted to.”

Castiel narrows his eyes. Perhaps this is a dream and he’s still unconscious. “Why, Mr. Winchester? You don’t even like me.” During meetings of the General Assembly, he and Winchester constantly bicker. They represent nations with completely opposite goals, and as a result, they’ve engaged in many memorable heated arguments.

“Please, call me Dean.”

And they’re suddenly on a first-name basis? “You didn’t answer my question.”

“I was there, okay!”

“Where?”

“I saved your damn life,” Winchester grouses.

“So, is that why you’re here? You want your thanks? Well, thanks a lot, _Dean_.”

“I couldn’t give a shit about your thanks. I just.” Winchester licks his lips. With the next words, his voice grows barely audible. “I was afraid you wouldn’t make it.”

 _Like it’d matter to you._ “If you say so. And, pray tell, how did you ‘save me’?”

“I was there when that douchebag put the gun to your head. It was strange. Like everything went into slow motion . . . ” Winchester’s voice drifts, as if he’s speaking to himself. “So I.—I jumped him. I couldn’t keep the bullet from hitting you, but at least you had a chance to live.”

Castiel hears someone say his name on the television attached to a shelf near the ceiling. He grabs the remote from the end table and turns up the volume. “The police have arrested Marv Metatron for attempting to assassinate the Sylvanian ambassador to the UN, Castiel Novak. “According to reports, Sapia’s UN ambassador, Dean Winchester, pushed Novak out of the way, which kept the shot from being fatal. We caught up with Mr. Winchester on his way out of the UN building.” Great. No doubt Winchester will milk the incident for positive PR.

A young woman shoves a microphone toward Winchester. Rather than taking the opportunity to brag, however, Winchester seethes, “Get that [beep] out of my face.” Castiel bites back a smile. The statement is such a quintessential expression of Winchester’s personality.

“Why’d you tell him to do it?” Winchester asks.

The question gives Castiel goosebumps. He turns to Winchester. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“When Metatron pointed the gun at you. I heard you tell him to do it. Why?”

“Does everyone know about that?” Castiel frets.

“No. No one else was there, and my lips are sealed.”

Castiel moistens his lips as he tries to formulate an explanation of his state of mind during that moment. His brain feels like nothing but static, though. Dean’s studying him now, his gaze intent, his manner sincere. Dean’s eyes meet his, and they’re beautiful . . . a mesmerizing shade of green, filled with solemnity.

“I . . . Anna was my dearest friend. She’s gone, and not having her . . . it’s rent a hole inside me. I feel trapped . . . ”

“Trapped?” Winchester repeats, frowning.

“Yes.” Castiel rubs his right eye and wills himself not to tear up. “Believe me, I hate Lucifer’s regime as much as you do. But we’re bound to them by treaty—”

“Their heinous actions render that treaty null and void, you know.”

Castiel sighs. “I suppose. But Michael . . . our president, he’s intent on honoring the treaty. Of course, I wholeheartedly agree with sending humanitarian aid, but providing Lucifer with weapons.” Castiel shakes his head. “It makes me uneasy.”

“Yeah,” Dean huffs. “I don’t always agree with Sapia’s actions, either. We shouldn’t be bombing Daemontia—at least the places we’ve been targeting. Lucifer and his lieutenants aren’t there. Just civilians. Our prime minister claims that some of those civilians are undercover agents for Lucifer, but I don’t believe it. Even if it were true, do the ends justify killing all those innocent people? Not in my book.”

Castiel gapes at Dean. “I’ve never heard you mention any of this,” he marvels softly.

“Well, I’ve never heard you say a word against Lucifer.” Winchester shrugs. “Guess we’ve both gotta toe the party line, huh?” He sounds a little bitter.

“I just wish there was something I could do,” Castiel continues. “If we stop supporting Lucifer, could that help the situation in Daemontia? And Michael.—He’s become something of a demagogue. Only his agenda matters. He even ordered me to stay here. Forbade me from taking time off for my sister’s memorial.”

“What the fuck?”

“Indeed.”

Dean chews on his bottom lip as they settle into a contemplative silence. Eventually, he observes, “Doesn’t Sylvania have a presidential election coming up in a few months?”

“Yes.”

“And you want change?”

“I’d like that, yes.”

“Well, then. Why don’t you run?”

Castiel gawks at him. “I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not presidential material.”

“Sure you are. Just be honest, talk like you’ve been doing with me. You’ve got this presence . . . ” Dean flushes at the pronouncement. “People’d eat it up.”

“Even if that were possible, I’d never win. I’d just be endangering myself for the long term.”

“Why is that?”

“Michael’s got everyone in his pocket. No one dares to oppose him . . . he can usually find some excuse to jail his competition. After I lose, I could disappear.”

Dean freezes once he realizes the implications of Castiel’s statement. He smiles nervously. “Then you just have to make sure you win.”

“And how do you propose I should accomplish the impossible?”

“It’s not impossible,” Dean insists, though he doesn’t sound completely confident in his claim. “Just. You’ve got to make yourself so popular that doing anything to you would outrage the populace.”

“Oh, because that’d be so easy,” Castiel scoffs.

Dean reaches for Castiel’s hand and squeezes, but a second later, he swiftly retracts his hand, and his eyes dart around the room. “You can do it. I’ll help you.”

Dean sounds more serious than Castiel’s ever heard him. If he takes the risk, he knows Dean will follow through on the promise. But does Castiel want to commit himself to such a drastic course of action? The decision will be irreversible.


	2. Six Months Later

The Sylvanian election is closely contested, so much so that Castiel and Michael are neck in neck until five o’clock the morning after voting takes place. As soon as Castiel had flown to Eden for Anna’s memorial, Michael had removed him as Sylvania’s UN ambassador. Afterward, before declaring his candidacy, Castiel had publicly denounced Michael as well as Lucifer, just as Dean had proposed. A gutsy move, one liable to get him imprisoned, he’d pointed out to Dean. But Dean made valid arguments. With his criticism published internationally, Michael couldn’t find an excuse to charge Castiel with a crime, not if he wanted to maintain relations with other countries, most of whom had already condemned Lucifer. Also, nominally at least, Sylvania is a republic, and jailing Castiel would’ve confirmed the suspicions of other nations leery of it. Countries like Sapia already openly advocate for UN sanctions against Sylvania because of its alliance with Lucifer, so its international reputation hangs only by a thread.

Castiel and his small but committed band of campaign workers had been waiting all night in his campaign office. He’s exhausted, and his mind drifts . . .

“Cassie!” Balthazar exclaims, jolting Castiel into alertness. “You did it!”

Castiel turns to Balthazar, who, from his place on the sofa to Castiel’s left, stares wide-eyed at the TV in the office lobby.

“What?” Castiel gasps. There’s no way. He’s fallen asleep, and now he’s dreaming.

“Look!”

Castiel focuses on the TV. According to the anchorwoman, Castiel has won by merely about five thousand votes. No doubt Michael will demand a recount, but election officials have declared Castiel will take office as the next president.

Castiel gawks at the screen while the campaign workers congratulate him. So far, Balthazar has kept the media at bay, refusing to let reporters inside, but now that Castiel is the projected winner, they’ll expect Castiel to say something, and rightfully so.

Castiel panics. He should’ve prepared himself for this possibility. But all polls had concluded Michael would be the clear winner . . . but perhaps Michael had funded them. It’s possible, even probable.

What can he say? What should he say?

As Castiel retreats to his private office, Balthazar assures him he’ll arrange a press conference and begin drafting a public statement.

Castiel’s not sure he wants Balthazar to write that statement. They should be his own words, shouldn’t they? Authenticity is part of his platform, and reading something composed by Balthazar seems disingenuous.

Castiel grabs a pen and a legal pad. But before he can formulate anything, someone knocks on the door.

“Cassie?” Balthazar calls.

“Yes?”

“You’ve got a visitor.”

A visitor. Who—?

“It’s Sapia’s ambassador to the UN. Dean Winchester,” Balthazar elaborates, sounding puzzled.

Dean? What would Dean be doing here? During the past few months, he’s talked to Dean on the phone almost every day and FaceTimed with him at least once a week. Dean had provided him with advice, yes, but their conversations had quickly grown more personal. Dean even complained about Castiel’s replacement to the UN, Naomi Ingalls. (“She’s got an even bigger stick up her ass than you, Cas.” Castiel had huffed in exaggerated annoyance at the pronouncement, but, though Dean couldn’t see it [perhaps _because_ Dean couldn’t see it], he had rolled his eyes affectionately.)

“Close the door behind you,” Castiel instructs as Dean slinks in. Once the door is shut, Castiel stands up and rounds his desk. He leans back against it and grins. “Hello, Dean.”

“Heya, Cas,” Dean replies as he approaches Castiel. He stops a few feet away.

Castiel frowns. “What are you doing here?”

“Gee, Cas, way to make a guy feel appreciated.”

“I am glad to see you, Dean, believe me.” With one hand, Castiel clutches at his hair. “I love my staff, but sometimes they can be exhausting. I just don’t understand. Shouldn’t you be at the UN?”

Dean examines the faded tan carpet and rubs his neck. “Uh. I just wanted to congratulate you.”

Castiel narrows his eyes. “The UN is halfway across the world, Dean.”

“So?”

“So. I just found out the results—” Castiel glances at his watch. “—ten minutes ago. That can’t be why you’re here.”

“I just wanted to be with you regardless of what happened, okay? Celebrate if you won and . . . commiserate if you lost.”

Castiel rests his hands on the desk behind him. “That’s sweet, Dean. Thank you.”

“So, what now?”

Castiel squints, attempting to read Dean, but he can’t. “What do you mean?”

“I’ll miss talking to you.”

Castiel’s heart lurches. Of course. It was all a political objective. He had wanted Castiel to become president because he’d revoke Sylvania’s support of Lucifer. With Castiel’s victory, he has no reason to continue associating with him.

And Castiel had believed they’d established a rapport. To think, he’d actually started to care about Dean, and he’d imagined that Dean felt the same. How could he be so stupid?

“Oh. Are we done with that, then?” Castiel ventures. He hopes Dean can’t hear the sadness in his voice.

“We kinda have to be, right?” Castiel just stares at him, so Dean continues. “What with all your presidential duties and shit, you won’t have time—"

“I could make time,” Castiel counters, defensive. Dean’s playing the classic politician, pretending their conversations will cease for Castiel’s benefit instead of admitting he’s finished with him.

“Really?”

Dean actually sounds hopeful. Castiel doesn’t know what to make of that. “Yes.”

Dean barks out a nervous laugh. “Um. Yeah. Cool. That sounds—awesome.”

“It does?” Castiel blurts, skeptical.

Dean looks as if Castiel has just struck him. “Yeah. Talking to you—it’s the highlight of my day. I thought . . . I thought you liked it, too, but if you don’t want to—”

“I do,” Castiel cuts in, his voice coming out in a rush.

Dean beams. “Okay. Great. That’s that, then.” He and Castiel awkwardly gaze at each other until Dean surges forward, positioning himself in the vee between Castiel’s legs, clasps his hands on Castiel’s shoulders, and smashes their lips together.

“What was that?” Castiel breathes when Dean pulls back.

“Been wanting to do that for a while,” Dean murmurs.

“Me, too,” Castiel admits. He places a gentle kiss on Dean’s lips then draws back, resting his forehead on Dean’s. It’s so intense, his eyes meeting Dean’s this close, but he doesn’t want to break the spell.

“Hmm . . . So, what now?”

Castiel snatches at Dean’s hand, massaging the palm with his thumb. “Will you be my boyfriend, Dean?” His face heats up. Asking the question, he sounds like a fifth grader, but he needs to be direct, make sure they fully understand each other.

“I’d like that,” Dean whispers, before taking a step back. “But how would that work?”

“What?”

“You’re the president of Sylvania, and I’m from Sapia . . . they’ve got a lot of negative history. I live across the goddamn globe . . . ”

“I believe love has a way of making things work out.”

“What?”

“It’ll work out somehow.”

“No. You said—love. You _love_ me?”

Oh. Had Castiel really said that? Yes, he had uttered the “l” word. How idiotic. Trust him to ruin everything. No doubt he’s now scared Dean away. Indeed, he has fallen in love with Dean even though all they’ve done is speak over the phone, but that would probably sound creepy to normal people.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel says.

“No, don’t apologize . . . Cas. I know it’s weird, but I love you, too.—”

“You do?”

“Yeah,” Dean mumbles, his green eyes earnest. It’s a divine sight.

Castiel snatches at a tuft of Dean’s hair and tugs him close, presses their lips together in yet another kiss. “I love you,” Castiel whispers.

“I love you,” Dean repeats.

Castiel doesn’t know how they’ll negotiate the situation, but as long as he has Dean, he has everything.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Additional warnings: brief suicidal ideation, attempted murder with a gun


End file.
